


The Meaning of Things

by ssa_archivist



Category: Smallville
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-23
Updated: 2002-12-23
Packaged: 2017-11-01 09:45:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/355176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ssa_archivist/pseuds/ssa_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there's Clark, Lex and darkness. Written for the Snuggle!fic challenge.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Meaning of Things

## The Meaning of Things

by Melo

<http://melo_l.livejournal.com>

* * *

Disclaimer : Nope, don't own them. Hell, where I live, they're not even on tv! 

Notes : Thanks to my wonderful betas who tried to virtually drill into my head that "thou shalt not start a sentence with And" :) You guys are the best and this story wouldn't be there if not for you! 

Feedback : is like good coffee : the best thing to wake up to in the morning :) 

* * *

He used to wonder about the meaning of things, usually at night as he lay awake in bed, once again startled out of sleep by his weird internal clock that for some reason has always been set on 2:32. He used to search for meaning in everything with a passion that bordered on desperation, because being a Luthor meant he had to know everything, being a Luthor was all about control, and there could be no control without understanding. Nothing scared him more then than things he didn't understand, and this waking-up pattern used to puzzle him, puzzlement turning to worry as he realized he couldn't shake the idea that he was missing something, that there had to be a message he just didn't get. He used to be scared of the day he would find out what was waiting for him in the darkness, as only bad things seemed to happen in the dark, as the only memories he had of those times were tainted with sadness and fear. 

Memories of waking up to his father's stare, heavy with disappointment and disgust, the one time he came to visit at the hospital, his face the only thing visible in the shadows of the room. Of waking up to the hushed whispers the nurses would make coming in and out of his mother's bedroom when she fell ill, or to the weird noises he would hear in the dorms back in boarding school. Of waking up to a feeling of nothingness that would leave him gasping for air and fighting panic, terrified to the point of looking for escape wherever he could find it, longing for oblivion to the point of trying everything once. But everything was never enough, and his mind always won the battle in the end, reminding him that he still didn't have the answers he craved for, reminding him that darkness was still there, waiting. 

Now as he wakes up every night at the dreaded hour, his first thought is a prayer of thanks to whoever is responsible for the boy lying beside him. He remembers waking up gasping for air that first night Clark stayed over, the first time in years Lex had allowed himself to go to bed _before_ 2:32, just to find himself engulfed in strong arms, a soft voice whispering that he was okay, that everything was okay, that there was nothing to be afraid of. He remembers the feeling of comfort and safety that washed over him like a wave then, washing away years of fear and questioning only to leave deep contentment in their place, and to this day he still wonders how Clark knew exactly what to say, how Clark knew the answer without ever knowing the question. 

He used to leave the curtains open to chase the darkness away, a habit even his father couldn't root out of him, but if anything now it just makes it easier for him to make out Clark's figure across the bed. It never ceases to surprise him that however close they are when they fall asleep, at 2:32 Clark is always curled up on his side of the bed, tangled in the covers, and Lex thinks he has never seen such a blatant invitation to snuggle as the one Clark issues when he's asleep. He doesn't indulge in it every night, though. Most of the time he's content just to lie there looking at him, moonlight leaving patterns on Clark's unscarred skin that he likes to memorize and trace over and over with soft kisses and fingertips in the morning. 

Clark asked him once about this ritual, seemingly surprised at his obvious concentration on something that would surely look like idle stroking if it came from anybody but Lex, but he just smiled as he laid his head back on Clark's stomach and let his fingertips resume their journey. It's not that he didn't want Clark to know, but this is personal in a way that nothing else is, because he doesn't do this for Clark, but for himself: a way of marking Clark that doesn't belong to anyone but Lex, marks that no one can see, but Lex. 

On other nights though, when there's no moon, no light, when darkness takes over, he needs more. More than light patterns, more than looking from afar, on those nights he needs to act, to touch and anchor, needs to reach over and feel. On those nights he lets his fingers map Clark's body with an intent that some would find disturbing, like a worshipping ritual gone wrong, and in a way, that's what it is: his own pagan ritual, his way to pledge himself to Clark all over again, his way of winning yet another battle in his ongoing war against the darkness. Each time he reaches over is a victory against the voice in his head telling him he doesn't need to, shouldn't need to do this, and each time he loves Clark more for not making things easier, for letting him reach without even inching closer, for letting him win his battle over himself on his own. Loves Clark more for pretending to be asleep, for trusting him to reach over and not needing words afterwards, for understanding that this is something to be left unsaid and that each time he reaches over is a proof of everything he can't say in the daylight. Loves Clark like the savior he doesn't realize he is. 

Only when his mapping is done does Clark pretend to wake up and smile at him. Most times, the night is so dark he can't really see the smile but knowing it's there is enough, and he smiles back as he lets Clark wrap his arms around him and pull him close. And as his head comes to rest in the hollow of Clark's shoulder, his last thought before sleep returns always goes to whoever set his internal clock for this dark hour, for he finally understands its meaning, its message. Finally understands that 2:32 is both a symbol of darkness and a proof that light can prevail. Finally understands that 2:32 is both a wake-up call to remind him of what he has to fight, and an hour of silent warmth to remind him of why he has to win. Finally understands that now, as he lays awake at night in Clark's arms, he doesn't have to worry about the meaning of things anymore. 


End file.
